


Make-Up Sex

by Wireslide



Series: Fifty Ships [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Also some flashback/semi-coherent Honerva, And some mental Alfor, F/M, Oral, a little bit of a death-by-sex kink?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-16 19:34:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16960212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wireslide/pseuds/Wireslide
Summary: Haggar is starting to remember who she used to be--and who Zarkon was to her.





	Make-Up Sex

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written as part of a 50-50 challenge.

She sat on the edge of the bed in a nightgown that mimicked the one she hadn't worn for ten thousand years; black and soft and sheer enough that he could see the stars through it, around her body when she stood to pace in front of the windows. She was restless. She sat, she stood, she paced, she leaned, she sat again. Dragging in a long breath through his nose, he realized she was _nervous._ He felt himself react, felt his muscles tense and his lips curl away from his teeth, ready to tear out the throat of whatever thing that could possibly intimidate _her_.

She froze, and nervousness smelled like fear.

Him.

She was afraid of _him_.

He stepped back, ten thousand years of refusing to die and giving her everything she indicated she wanted conflicting with wanting to hold her now that she remembered who she was—and who she was to him. Everything about her manner, the smell of her fear, told him she wanted him to give her space, but even as he backed away, she crossed the room to corner him. He shuffled his feet, confused, and the plates of his armor whispered together in the well-worn grooves where it overlapped. Her mouth drew into a tight line.

“Take that off,” she snapped, reaching out to flick the armor derisively, “no one that it can protect you against is going to attack you.” She clamped her lips closed over the last word, scowled, and spun away to pace again. Her fingers flexed, fists tightened and relaxed, her claws regrew and sank away as though she sheathed them. Her skin wavered in an unpleasant place between her natural nut brown and the deep lavender she wore as Haggar. She dragged in a deep breath, listening to his armor settle on the table. “No one. Is. I'm not...going to attack you.”

“I wouldn't stop you if you did,” he told her quietly, “I am, as I have always been, yours to do with as you please.” He spread his hands when she rounded on him with her teeth bared—too sharp for an Altean, barely usable for a Galra. “I told you this when you proposed, Honerva. That if you wanted to marry me or use and discard me, I was yours as you pleased.”

She stared at him for a long moment, then seemed to realize she was crouched as if to attack and straightened upright. Nut brown hands smoothed down the sheer black fabric, though he knew the motion was to hide a faint tremble. “I don't remember that,” she said quietly, gold eyes staring sightlessly down at the floor, “I have been...I have tried. To reclaim more memories, of...my life. Of being Honerva. I don't remember so much. I am still missing an entire lifetime.” Her brows drew together, and she started to slide to the floor.

He bolted forward to catch her, easily lifting her to gently set her back on the bed, where she leaned against the post and stared up at him. He knelt before her so she wouldn't have to crane her neck so much. “What you retrieved from my mind, it was only a fraction that is there. I remember it all, Honerva. I remember every moment with you.” He reached up a hand, delicately touching her cheek with one scarred knuckle. “Take it.”

She pulled back, and he lowered his hand. “I need to remember my own memories, Zarkon,” she told him sourly, “seeing things from your perspective may only cloud my mind further.” She watched him bow his head, and sighed, reaching out to tip it up again with the lightest touch. “Tell me, instead,” she insisted gently.

He smiled, lowering himself further to settle his massive head in her lap like a tame pet. “There are some things I can tell you,” he agreed, “though I may not have the words to do our emotions justice. There are some things I can show you that do not involve a mental probe.” He had smelled it on her for days, the want that came with some of those memories she had doubtlessly seen in his mind, he'd seen by the way that she moved lately that toxins were building up in her muscles and causing her pain. She had never hesitated to approach him for relief as Haggar, and he was having a difficult time understanding why she was reluctant knowing now that they were married.

She stared down at him, then shoved at his head, which barely moved. He knew she was capable of throwing him through the bulkhead if she so chose, so the protest was labelled 'social politeness' in his mind and ignored. “Zarkon, you--” She laughed when he just continued smiling at her, racous and chopped, and to him, it was the most beautiful sound in the universe.

He had burned down countless worlds in an effort to hear it again.

“I suppose I can't exactly claim that I asked you here while I wore this under innocent pretenses,” she noted, stroking her palm along his head. He felt his skin tingle and tighten, plump with long-forgotten youth, even as the shape of the bones beneath shifted ever so slightly. She continued smiling at him. “I am nowhere near that good a liar.” She sighed, then shook her head. “I cannot give you back the face you remember, husband,” she told him, the look in her eyes tainted with sadness, “I cannot heal, only change.”

He would burn down countless more worlds to remove that look from her eyes.

Zarkon nuzzled his face into her palm, then ducked his head and made sure she rubbed over the scent gland under the edge of his front armor plate. “Then I will change, Honerva, just enough for you.” He lifted his gaze to her again, and this time the look she gave him brought him just enough to his feet to shift her backwards to that she lay fully on the bed and he could stretch out beside her. He rubbed his face against her, breathing in her scent, and raised one claw to reach for the neckline of her nightgown.

“Zarkon! If you tear this nightgown I will swap your arms and legs _for a week_!” She threatened, then caught her breath when he shrugged and pushed the flowing fabric up her legs instead.

“Yes, dear,” he murmured, lowering his head to press his face into the wiry lavender curls between her legs. He breathed her in again, and felt her shudder in response. Her fingers curled around his head and he felt his entire insides jump—if she got too excited and forgot her immense Altean strength she could pop his skull like a ripe melon, and damned if either of them wanted to explain _that_ death—before he leaned into the nerves and just inhaled again.

She smelled faintly different as Honerva, and he attributed it to her natural shapeshifting abilities. Something about her pure Altean form smelled sweeter, more dangerous, like a trapflower's saccharine allure. When he lifted his head to look up at her, he opened his mouth to drag the scent in over his tongue and watched her shudder again. Every nerve in his body screamed that he was in danger, and as he watched the faint crackle of Haggar's violet electricity dance where the pupils of her golden eyes should have been, he couldn't bring himself to disagree.

A muscle in her face twitched in discomfort. “Zarkon...”

He nodded. “You have wanted for several days, now is not the time for foreplay,” he agreed, then lowered his head back down.

Honerva felt her spine snap upward as though it would launch itself through her ribs and remembered to move her hands to the sheets before her fingers spasmed into tight grips. She heard the fabric tear, somewhere in the back of her mind, but all she could focus on was the massive, hot tongue sliding over and between her folds with the ease of long familiarity, the faint semi-constant scrape of the hard jaw against the insides of her thighs, and the sound Zarkon made at the first taste of her. As though he had never left the sunburnt sands at the head of Daibazaal and she was his first ever drink of water.

She remembered, he had made that sound the first time they'd done this, when her hair had still been lavender and she had laughed at his earnest confession that he had little enough idea how to please a female body, much less an Altean one. She had admitted, through the tears of her laughter, that she had little idea of her own pleasure, either. They had, after several eventually painful hours, figured out enough to find her relief, at least.

Oh, but he had improved since then, and he was perfectly willing to prove it. A faint touch of the tip of one jagged point on his jaw turned into a scratch over her clit, swiftly replaced by the heat of his tongue flicking and then pressing against the rapidly-swelling spot. Her screech could have shattered bone if she had let it, but he wasn't done, pulling his tongue back in the center to create suction, and the scream ended in a muffled moan of his name.

He growled in response, triggering another memory.

She would have to learn what she liked in order to teach him, he'd insisted, setting the wooden chest in the window seat, and since he wanted to know how to help her—gods, that was how he'd always phrased it back then, as though sex was an inconvenience to her and he was there to carry her through it—she would need the proper tools. Since she'd tried Altean tools to no use but frustration and the first scattering of small scars on the back of her thighs (the look on his face when he'd first seen them, the stifled rage that no one would help her get off just because she was genetically imperfect) he'd brought her some from Daibazaal.

She still wasn't sure which tribes or creatures some of those shapes belonged to, but she'd found one that worked, one that made her wet and shaking and moaning his name, and he'd growled and watched her with those intense yellow eyes, time after time after time...

She snapped back when he lifted his head. “Honerva?” He murmured, the question both concern and asking permission.

She pushed his head back down and bit her own forearm when he pushed his tongue _into_ her. Gods, she was going to _die_ , she was going to _split right down the middle and not regret a second of it and oh gods it was just his tongue._

'How did you manage,' the voice in her brain was familiar, but no direct memory, no face surfaced, though the accent was certainly Altean, 'to be brave enough to mount him? That, Honey'—Honey, no one had called her that in longer than she'd been Haggar—'is the kind of dick that fells _mountains._ It is bigger around than your _waist._ I know, I've seen it.'

Her response from the time bubbled up out of her without triggering the memory of the face to whom she spoke. “Knowledge or death, my king.” Her head snapped back in a faint laugh even as she growled at Zarkon for pulling his magnificent tongue out.

“Honerva?”

“More,” she panted, pulling her legs back and getting to her knees to drag him into a different position. She straddled his face, her knees barely touching the bedspread, and rolled her hips down against the hard bone armor of his jaw. She grinned at the wet smear she left. She hadn't even noticed she'd come once already. “More, Zarkon. Mo—hah!” She arched her back again when he opened his mouth to obey.

From this angle, she could tell that he was using maybe a third of his tongue, and she rolled herself down towards him again, panting. “ _More_ ,” she demanded again, shuddering and gasping when he complied. She felt herself stretch, almost wondered at the ease with which her body adapted to the intrusion, and for a moment she remembered being Haggar and climbing onto him on the throne while there was no one present without preamble. He had more, she could take more.

She remembered every time she used her shapeshifting to keep from dying, to make room for him, to take more of him because he was hers and she wanted _all of him._

She pushed herself upward, gasping in horror at the sudden flood of memories, and barely noticed when he had to help her off his face. “Honerva?”

It took her a moment to respond. “Y-yes.” Yes, she was Honerva, yes, she would be all right, yes she wanted to keep going. After those memories, _gods_ did she want to keep going. She wanted to know if he would stop if he tore through her, if she could save herself from dying of internal bleeding before she felt him in the back of her throat, if she could survive taking him without shapeshifting and how long it would take her to get back up if she died from it.

There was probably something wrong with her besides a malformed throat.

'Oh, Honey,' that same voice, her king, gentle and reassuring, 'trust me, anyone who's thought about riding him has thought about _that._ '

Haggar's voice rose from inside her to respond, dry and scathing. 'We are a god, Honerva, we cannot die. It is safer now than it was.'

Good to know she was still mad. She looked up as Zarkon encircled her with one massive hand, and the look on his face shuffled off all her sudden heated wonderings. He would stop, she knew, before he came close to harming her. She had to shapeshift not for her pleasure, but for his. She called up the memories of how she'd managed before, and reached for him again. Her golden eyes caught the light and gleamed, but stayed gold. “ _More,_ ” she repeated, squirming closer, and down. She had the satisfaction of seeing his eyes widen as he realized her goal.

“Honerva, wait, I need to--” He picked her up and moved her, pinned her with one hand when she squalled angrily. Before she could fling him across the room, he reached down with the other hand and carefully pressed his smallest finger into her.

She gasped, bucked, came again, and used the slick she'd made to push herself down further on his hand with a moan. He gentled his hold on her, cradling her in the curve of his palm instead as he thrust his finger in and out of her, waiting until the motion was smooth before delicately adding a second finger.

She never ceased to amaze him, his wife. Thrashing and moaning on two fingers, legs spread impossibly wide, not begging him but demanding more with every twitch and arch of her back. She was so tiny, he had to bend more than double to sniff the top of her hair, but she had such power inside of her, even before she had become what she was. His Honerva, beautiful even when she asked him to show her the truth she'd sought as she died, beautiful now as she demanded that he 'stop toying with me already, damnit.' He smiled, lowering his head to drag his tongue between her legs even as he pulled his fingers out—the sound she made was more than worth the crick he would have later in his neck—and sat himself back to settle her gingerly on his knees.

She squirmed down on one, eyes locked on the cock now fully emerged from its sheath--'as big around as your _waist_ ,' the memory repeated—and the way it twitched slightly at her stare. It was almost the length of her entire torso and yes, she agreed with the memory-voice, definitely at least as big around as her waist, but it was slick and ridged with soft armor plates and leaking and the _smell of it_ \--

Another memory.

“I'm familiar with the concept but I don't think any Altean could really shapeshift enough to not hurt their jaw trying.”

“Well, let me _try_. I should see if I can add any knowledge to the limits of Altean shapeshifting and—I'm not sure you were ever meant to actually breed.” She first time she'd touched this part of him, it had been a scientific curiosity. The heat, the smell, the way he'd shuddered at her touch had stayed with her for weeks, had caused a want that built toxins up in her muscles until the back of her legs scarred again, and he had been so angry with her for hurting herself he'd wielded the tool himself that time. It had been shaped like him, she'd realized. She didn't walk right for three days after, and he was heartbroken.

“Honerva?”

She snapped her eyes up to look at him, gave him a reckless smile, and slid down his knees with her legs open.

“ _Honerv--_ ” the faint, choked sound he made when she came to a stop was entirely worth feeling like she was trying to shove an entire battle cruiser between her legs. It would still completely be worth it, she decided, if she blacked out from this.

This was every culture's idea of heaven and hell combined into one. The thick, spicy smell of him, the pressure of her weight still pushing her further down, the heat that felt like he was made of stars burning their way through her, wrapped her up in a cocoon of confused pleasure/pain euphoria that stalled just a little too far from her world going white. She could feel the heat rising as she slid down further, shifting herself around him, to fit him, to have as much of him inside her as she could. When she knew her body had reached its limit, panting, she raised her eyes to his. And clenched.

He _howled._ It hurt, she was Altean and they could crush star metals with their bare hands, this was agony. When she released him, he cupped his hand around her again and bent his head to rub his scent across her brow. “Honerva...” It was a whimper, but he could feel her touch changing his pain to pleasure, and shuddered.

“Sorry,” she whispered, “sorry. I forgot. Oh, husband, I'm so sorry. I forgot. Zarkon, my love, are you all right?” She reached up to carress his face, to comfort him, to reassure him, to help change his pain, and he nuzzled against her in forgiveness. “I was...just trying to remind you that I'm not as delicate as I look.”

“I do know that,” he muttered, “I just worry.” But he lifted his head a bit, took her in—the fabric of her thin nightgown sticking to him between her legs, a veil of false modesty while she engulfed him, the openmouthed way she panted, the flush to her cheeks, the way her nipples caught against the sheer black gown—and groaned. The hand cupping her turned to a grip, and he shifted her up, then pulled her back down, wrenching a gasp and then a squeak from her raspy throat. He hesitated, once last time. “Honerva?”

She grabbed his hand and met his eyes. “ _More_.”

As he always had, he gave her what she wanted.

 


End file.
